


i know the kindest thing (is to leave you alone)

by peas_god



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Demigod!Jaskier, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Healing, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Unrequited Love, he just has so much love to give, in this house we stan healing from the harsh words of your witcher with the love of your family, is it really?, jaskier is a bi icon okay, to a certain degree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25547008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peas_god/pseuds/peas_god
Summary: Jaskier's father was a man his mother loved with an intensity that he never understood. Until he met a witcher and decided that this is the man that he would follow to the ends of the world and beyond. This is a man that he will follow, come heaven, hell, and his own mortal end. Until his feet refuse to walk, until his last breath escapes his lungs.But Jaskier isn't mortal. He is much of his father's son as he is his mother's and his father is the farthest from a mortal there is and yet at the same time, the closest thing to a human.Or: Jaskier is very much like his mother and is not the only one in the family who fell in love with someone long-lived and not quite human.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 41
Kudos: 486





	i know the kindest thing (is to leave you alone)

**Author's Note:**

> i've only watched the series but i've fallen for the bard and I just want him to be happy okay. or: fuck u canon demi god jaskier time and also, i write what i want

He hasn't actually seen his father face-to-face, not once in his entire life. Jaskier has only heard his voice. He remembers warm hands, rustling leaves, and a voice that reminds him of creaking floorboards. Weary, worn, and still very comforting in the weight it carries. But no, try as he might he doesn't recall his father's face. Just his voice.

He asked his mother about it once, about why he hasn't seen his father and honestly it's more like he has asked twice or thrice but this is the one that sticks, and he had never seen his mother smile so sadly yet so lovingly as if she's recalling a fond memory that has caused her such pain but refuses to let it go after all this time for some reason that only she knows. He was very young then but young enough to recall how her eyes misted over and know, deep within him, that this was not a happy tale.

And it was not.

She told him a tale of a young maiden falling in love with a man that she could never have, of a man greater than life itself and at the same time, not quite a man at all. He was a man of forgotten things. He was the scent of decaying petals on soft earth, the give of moss underneath your hands, the dust that settles on a shelf that you can't quite reach. He was everything and nothing and Jaskier's mother loved him with an intensity that Jaskier can't comprehend even after all these years. His mother loved- loves his father, a fact that rings true year after year, but his father did not love her.

She knew that he will never love her the way she wants but she loved him all the same. The Pankratz's were stubborn people and loved and loves and will love and she was a Pankratz through and through. So she dug her heels and loved and gave her everything to him. And he, well, he gave her the closest thing to love that he can.

He gave her a son.

And Jaskier, Julian then, felt anger seep in his bones to his father. To him then, until now honestly, his mother was the most amazing woman he knew. To his young mind, she was better than the baker who gives him an extra bun when he asks for it, better than the lady who had the sweetest voice and always sang whatever song he wanted when he visits, and even better than any of the maids who tell him stories if he asked.

She is still the most amazing woman he knows, years and years after she told him about his father. Bitterness still made its way into his love for her, but no, this was not about his bitterness over her falling in love with his father. He would never blame her for loving others, for falling so easily and so deeply. If he did, he'd end up being a hypocrite.

But yes, for the longest time he was angry at his father. For never loving his mother, for leaving her with child, for leaving them.

For leaving _him_.

But the thing is, after his mother's tale, after she dried her misty eyes, she told him a secret. She told him that even though his father did not love her, he loves Julian very, very much. And if he's lucky, his father will sing to him. That stopped the bitterness spilling over to loathing. The only thing that stopped him from outright hating his father was how sure his mother was that he loves Julian and his father will _sing_ to him.

Singing, of all things.

The most peculiar thing is that it was true. It started with hums, low and comforting which shook his bones. Then murmurs of familiar tunes, never quite forming the words he knew accompanied them. Until it became songs, glorious, glorious songs. It was exactly how he expected his father's voice to be, in the deepest depths of his heart, warm and filled with love.

His father sings of frost creeping on windowsills, of unintelligible mutterings inside of a tavern, of the feel of sand beneath feet. He sings of old, easily forgotten things. These were his domain, and soon to be Julian's too.

For years, his father sang to him, and in return, Julian sang to his mother. The first time he sang to his mother one of his father's songs, she cried. He cried too, fearing that he did something wrong. Deathly afraid that in reminding his mother of his father, he only ended up hurting her. But no, she reassured him that they weren't tears of sadness.

They were tears of joy.

His mother lets him go when he said he wanted to go out of the world and sing his father's songs. She may love his father, this will never change, but she loves her son more. And above all, all she ever wanted was for him to be happy. She assured him that there would always be a place for him in Lettenhove and in her heart but if wandering the world after his taste at Oxenfurt will make him happy, she will let him go.

And she did.

Julian became Jaskier and met Geralt of Rivia and fell in love.

After meeting his witcher, after years and years and years by his side, Jaskier now sings to the world.

He sings to Geralt, sometimes. Differently. It is not the singing he does in taverns, jaunty and full of life nor the singing he does in courts, grace and beauty and poise drilled into him when he was very young. He sings to Geralt with a voice buried deep within him, raw and real and filled with so much love. He sings and sings and sings. It is his prayer, his plea, his benediction.

Geralt doesn't ask for anything but that doesn't stop Jaskier from wanting to give him _everything_. If there is power behind his songs then he shall sing until his voice turns hoarse, until it gives out on him. Even then, he will repeat his wishes until he simply cannot.

Let this man be safe, let him find peace, and most of all, _please_ , let him be happy.

It feels like his father's songs but no, this is Jaskier's and Julian's alone. He sings his prayers to whatever god is willing to hear him. He sings and he sings and he prays. 

_He begs._

He loves his witcher like his mother loves his father. He will never stop loving Geralt. Just as sure the sun will rise the next day, Jaskier will continue loving Geralt until the end of his days.

Ironically, the end of his days came very close by the hands of the man he loves so dearly. Djins are nasty creatures in the sense that they twist your wishes in the cruelest way possible. This is the only time he hears his father outside of sleep, Jaskier gasping for breath and so close to death.

“I am sorry,” his father says to him with a voice that echoed so loudly in his head, “I am so so sorry I cannot save you.” Jaskier feels the soft give of the bed underneath him and if he tries hard enough, it almost feels like an embrace. Better than the pain making his way in his throat, better than knowing that he is to die soon.

“I am the god of forgotten things and I have no control over someone so remembered, there is nothing that I can do to save you.” his father spits out, voice breaking. “I am sorry.”

Jaskier’s throat burns and every breath he takes rattles. He tries so very hard to reassure his father, that it was okay, that if this was his final moment having his father beside him is enough. That if he were to die today, then he shall die knowing that he is loved.

He only manages to croak.

Jaskier feels hands cradle his head and he isn’t quite sure whether it is his father or Geralt but they are warm. So very warm. He hears his father haltingly hum a lullaby, almost unsure, lulling Jaskier into sleep. He startles when the humming stops, a sob interrupting it, but settles back in when it continues.

If he were to die today, Julian’s mind softly restates, let it be in the arms of his father with his voice surrounding him.

But he doesn’t. Die, that is. 

Yennefer corners him when the cold winds of winter were settling in, after his very near brush with death. She appeared from a portal like the sorceress she is and stares at him straight in the eyes. Unwavering and unflinching.

"What are you, bard?" She demands, nearing him step by step until Jaskier feels the walls of Oxenfurt behind his back. She always has this intensity in her, a type of intensity that takes and takes and takes. “I felt something in you when I healed you. So tell me, what are you?”

He gives her a weak, faltering smile at the question. Jaskier doesn’t even know exactly what he is. All he has is his mother’s stories and his father’s songs and both of them sounded like a drunk fool’s rambling at best. “Woke up the wrong side of the bed, haven’t you?”

Jaskier certainly does not yelp when Yennefer suddenly closes their distance, her face inches from his. He absolutely does not break into a cold sweat when he feels her in his mind, looking for the answers he does not know how to answer. He will forever deny the whimper of fear he lets out when she inches a little bit closer with a puzzled look on her face.

He also does not feel the tiniest smidge of arousal in how easily she manhandles him but he refuses to go over that feeling and stores it in a box deep in his mind.

But he does sigh in relief when he feels the intensity that is ‘Yennefer of Vengerberg demanding answers’ lessen. She arches a brow at him. “Aren’t you more trouble than you’re worth?” she asks.

Jaskier tries to answer but for once, his words leave him. She doesn’t wait for him to muster up a reply. She scoffs at him.

She leaves as quickly as she arrived.

That night he dreams of songs about the smell of lilacs and the taste of gooseberries and his father murmuring between songs that he is the god of forgotten things and Yennefer was once his and- wasn’t that a revelation.

If Geralt is his moon, bright and unyielding, then Yennefer is the night sky. Deep, dark, graceful. They belong together, he muses, and he is left breathless by the beauty of them _together_.

He may tease and he may jest but he knows, dear gods he knows, that they look right together.

After Citra, after everything, when he makes his way down the mountain with his heart bleeding and fingers trembling, he sees Roach. He still sings, begs, his love for Geralt to her, his words slurring together because of grief and hurt. Some part of him understands that this was Geralt lashing out, Geralt bares his teeth but never bites, but a bigger part of Jaskier aches. For the first time in a long time, he misses his mother.

And there is a part of him, the soft-vulnerable-fragile part of him, that hates and hates and hates. Hates how he is so much like his mother, how he loves so deeply that he drowns. Hates that no matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries to be easier to love, the only thing left of him is his songs. Hates that after all of this he will come back to Geralt, that Jaskier will forgive him because he loves him and that whatever Geralt does with his delicate heart, Jaskier will still love him. He hates and loves but he could never, never hate Geralt.

How long has he loved Geralt? How long has he wanted something so desperately but never asked for it?

But even then, he sings his blessings and pleas to Roach. She listens, nudging her head between his shaking fingers. It almost feels like an apology on behalf of her stupid, stupid master and Jaskier gives her head a peck in thanks. He still grabs his things, however, and starts to make his way back home. 

No, not home. Home is a grumpy witcher and his horse and wherever Destiny drags them to. Home is the hard ground on his back and the stars above his head and Geralt beside _him_. Home is Geralt’s slow steady heartbeat and warmth and care. But Jaskier longs for comfort and a place to rest his weary heart and the home he found in Geralt is not exactly a place he can currently return to. So he makes his way to his first home.

He returns to his mother.

His father’s singing turns to exclusively humming during his journey. Old forgotten things that were left undisturbed until now. His father doesn’t sing any of the words of these songs, too ancient, Jaskier thinks, or maybe these songs didn’t have any words in the first place. It reminds him of hair ties shoved into the back of drawers, of worn beloved toys stored in chests that are never to be opened, of the worms coming out of the dirt after it rains.

He finds comfort in forgotten things. They are his secrets to keep, only revealing them in songs that you forget the words to but never the tune. He may sing of them to the world but they are his father’s and most importantly, his.

Julian arrives at Lettenhove in a daze. He doesn’t quite know how long it took but the important thing is that he’s here. His first sight of his mother after years makes him pause. “How long has it been?” he manages to force out.

He left Lettenhove with his mother’s face smooth and bright. As she stands before him, he sees that there are now crow’s feet by his mother’s eyes and creases where there should be none. Her eyes are still very bright, however, and still very much filled with love.

He knows that not much changed with his appearance. Maybe a bit warier, his steps a lot lighter, his voice a bit less loud. All the same, Julian returns home to find his mother has grown old and he has not.

This is a problem.

Julian reaches out to cup his mother’s face with his hands to reassure himself that what he’s seeing is real. She lets him. “How long?” he repeats, voice softer.

She holds his hands in her own and brings them down from her face. She squeezes his hands. “Did you forget your numbers, Julian?” she teases, her eyes crinkling in delight.

“That- this is- you know what I mean, mother.” he sputters.

She lets go of his hands and tilts her head. She gives Julian a small smile. “Do I?”

He lets out a dramatic sigh and offers her a tired smile. “Well hopefully, you do.”

“Tea first, then. I’ve missed my son.” She says. He offers his arm for her to hold and they make their way inside their home. Knowing his mother, tea means sitting in the gardens located right in the middle of the manor. His mother doesn’t say anything when he steers them to the gardens so he must be right.

“I missed you, Julian,” she says during the short trek to the gardens. She squeezes his arm. Now that the shock of seeing her older than he expects she is is wearing off, he admits to himself that she looks tired. Being alone in a big old manor must have been lonely, he thinks.

He pats her arm with his free hand. “Thank you for letting me go, I’ve missed you too.” he really did miss his mother, even if she rarely crossed his mind. The world was exciting with new stories to sing about in every corner and new melodies to discover. Monsters to slay, people to save, witchers to bother.

There will always be songs to sing and adventures to go to but he only has one mother.

He sits across his mother on a set of metal chairs between a metal and glass table. He spent a lot of time in these gardens. The afternoon sun is warm and he only realizes now that he has missed this, sitting in the gardens with his mother with the sweet scent of flowers and the earthy scent of freshly cut grass surrounding them.

He thanks the servants that brought their tea and he lets the soothing scent of chamomile envelope him. He takes his cup just to hold it, the warmth from the tea comforting. 

The tea is too hot to drink anyway. 

His mother adds a spoonful of honey to her cup. “You aren’t here to stay, are you?” Her eyes are focused on her cup but she does look at him for a beat, just a beat, before looking back at her cup and stirring her tea.

He knows his mother and he knows this is her way to ask without revealing her biases. She always wanted for him to make decisions he wants to make, and not for him to make decisions that would please her. “You know me, always moving. There are plenty of songs to learn and ladies to woo out there.” He looks at his reflection on the surface of his tea. When the tinkling of his mother’s spoon stops, he looks at her.

She’s giving him a teasing smile. “Ladies to woo?” she begins, tapping her spoon on her cup once before placing it down. “Tell me you jest, you flirt like a new-born calf learning to walk.” She blows on her tea.

He gives her a smile, raising both of his eyebrows. “By that, you meant that I get ladies to fall for me in an instant?” He waggles his eyebrows and sips his tea obnoxiously.

Still hot but bearable. He had to make a point so it was worth it.

She places her cup down and shakes her head. “I meant that it is painfully awkward and falls more than half the time,” she says and reaches over to swat his arm once he sets his cup down. “Was it worth burning your tongue for that, you silly man?”

“It is not burnt, thank you very much.” The tea was hot though. “Maybe a bit.” he concedes. They laugh. Oh, how he has missed his mother.

As much as it was fun to tease each other, there are things he has to address. “Why have you aged and I have not?”

“You are as much as your father’s son as you are mine, Julian.”

He lets out a breath. “Both you and he have told me that he is a God and that I am his son,” he waves his hands around, “what does that mean, exactly?”

“That you are _our_ son.” she lifts her hand and brings up a finger, “Long life, mostly. He isn’t a powerful God by any means but he is a God all the same.” a second finger lifts, “You’re stronger than most,” a third, “healthier too.”

She lifts a fourth finger. “And, there’s magic in your songs Julian.” she brings down her hand and clasps her hands together on top of the table. “It is weak and you do it unconsciously but it is there, I’ve noticed that intent is very important in your songs.”

She hums and corrects herself “Not magic, no, blessings. They’re blessings.”

Magic, blessings. He wasn’t a simple bard after all. There were multiple times where he sang and whatever he wanted to happen, happened. Like a wilted flower that he finds suddenly perky after humming a little tune, or a clear sky when it looked like it was going to rain after singing a lengthy song about wishing the rain to happen in another day.

When Geralt had easily brushed off a nasty looking wound after spending the whole night singing to, pleading for, him.

Julian looks at his mother. “Why tell all of this to me now?” he asks, voice low with the realization that he isn’t quite what he thinks he is.

She reaches over to hold both of his hands, her thumb rubbing a slow circle over his skin. “Because you only asked, truly asked, now.”

They stay like that, Julian overcoming the realization of what he truly is and his mother comforting him.

After a while, she looks at him and his slumped shoulders. “You look tired, Julian.” she coos, her eyes taking in the dark circles beneath his eyes and his unkempt hair.

He sighs. “I am,” he slumps over their holding hands, tightening his hold. “I am.” he repeats in a soft, defeated voice.

“Then rest,” she says, bringing her chair closer to him and folding him into her arms. “I have you.”

He buries his head on her shoulders and her voice rumbles in his ears. “You are my son,” she begins, “and will always be my son.” He feels a hand running through his hair. “No matter how old you get you will always be my little boy.”

His laugh may have been a little bit wet but that is between them. “And here I feared that I shall die a mortal end, mother. You should’ve told me sooner so I could tempt fate a bit more boldly.”

She tsks. “You were much more than a handful when you were a child. You have tempted fate far more times than I could count with both my hands.” she pats his back, not unlike when she pats the leaves of a beloved plant on a sunny day. “I love you dearly but you were a brat. You still are.”

He shoots upright. “Mother!” he hisses. 

They both ignore the wetness of his eyes and he begins to question her about the state of Lettenhove. They gossip is the short of it, enjoying their tea and snacks brought in by his request.

He does not talk about his time with Geralt or Geralt himself. He does not say why he looks so defeated, so brokenhearted. His mother lets him, offering comfort in the way she knows how to: food and talk.

It is enough to lift his spirits, enough to jumpstart the beginning of his heart fixing itself. It is still a long way before he can go back to the road and search for his witcher but it is a start towards it. He loves Geralt, that will never change, but he needs time to be Julian and not Jaskier.

He needs time to be Julian Alfred Pankratz of Lettenhove. The son of a woman who fell in love with a god, the son of a god who rules over forgotten things. He is a bard and he is a son.

If he tries hard enough, he thinks he can hear his father humming. Mixed with his mother’s laugh, it leaves him breathless with the weight of their love for him.

He will return to his witcher’s side someday but today, and the following days, is not that day. For now, he will bask in the love so easily offered to him, and in return, he will love as deeply and as fiercely as he can. He loves Geralt and he can fall in love with Yennefer if he lets himself. He will continue loving them, even if they would never return his love or love him with the same intensity that they love each other.

He will love them still if they were to break his heart into pieces and shatter it beyond repair. He will love them regardless of their response to it. As long as he breathes, as long as his feet still tread the same earth that they step on, as long as he lives his love will remain.

And oh, what a long life he will have.

He will love and love and love. This will never change.

**Author's Note:**

> i just want happiness for the feral bard, is that too much to ask? And please do ignore all the glaring grammatical mistakes, i have tried my best and thats what matters but also, i apologise.


End file.
